Pink vs. Blue

Saturday Night Lives

Third Saturday of the month, we dine with our friends, Bill and Rosemary Lucas. We take turns, one month at their house and one month at our house.

Last month at our house, Rosemary and my wife Karen discussed how men can be self-involved. As an example, Rosemary went on and on about how Bill spent a lot of time and money on photography.

Not to be outdone, Karen mentioned how I spent a lot of time and money on crossdressing.

I turned beet red with embarrassment. My crossdressing was a family secret. I was incredulous that Karen would let the cat out of the bag, but in the heat of the moment, she wanted to up Rosemary’s complaints about Bill.

“Who would have thought that about Stanley,” commented Rosemary.

“I’m shocked,” said Bill.

“Yes, ‘Stan the Man’ likes to become ‘Pearl the Girl’ about once a week,” added Karen.

“I'd like to meet her,” Bill said with a Cheshire Cat grin.

With a twinkle in her eye, Rosemary suggested, “Maybe Pearl can dine with us next month.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Karen replied.

“I can't wait!” Rosemary exclaimed. I did not say a word and the subject was dropped for other topics that I cannot recall because my head was spinning about what just happened.

On the way home, Karen apologized for telling Bill and Rosemary about Pearl.

“I accept your apology, but why did you go along with Rosie’s idea about Pearl showing up for dinner next month?”

“At first, I thought it would be too embarrassing for you, but Rosie and Bill were so enthusiastic that I thought, why not. Pearl is a beautiful woman and she deserves to go out and be seen.”

“I'll think about it,” was where I left it.

The month passed and I thought it was a dead issue.

Over breakfast on the morning of our next dinner with the Bill and Rosemary, Karen asked, “What is Pearl wearing tonight?”

I didn't see that coming.

“Stan was planning to go to dinner without Pearl tonight,” I replied.

“Rosie and Bill were expecting to see Pearl. In fact, I was expecting to see Pearl, too.”

“But...”

“You are going to disappoint everyone. Why don”t you stop being so self-centered and think about others for a change.”

Karen was angry... very angry. I felt guilty and started reconsidering. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Bill and Rosie already know and it might be fun to get out of the house en femme, as the “girls” say.

I finally relented, “I guess Pearl can make an appearance tonight.”

Karen's anger turned to elation, “Great! I'm so happy that she changed her mind.”

I completed my Saturday chores by mid-afternoon and began transforming myself into Pearl.

I disrobed and applied hair removal cream on my legs, arms, breasts and as far as I could reach on my back. While waiting for the cream to do its job, I applied a shaving gel to my face, neck and armpits, put a fresh blade in my razor and got in the shower.

As the water washed the depilated hair from my body, I shaved. Then I cleansed my whole body, rinsed and stepped out of the shower.

After drying myself, I rubbed moisturizer into my soft skin, then I slipped on a pair of black lace panties (the only kind I will wear) and sat at the vanity to do my makeup.

I used some concealer to hide the faint shadow of my beard, then applied foundation and powder. I did my eyes next. The eyeliner makes them stand out and a deft application of mascara and eyeshadow make them look smoky and mysterious. Some blush and muted lipstick followed.

Pearl is a blond and has a variety of hair styles at her disposal, so I had to decide which coiffure she would wear. I selected a short wispy layered cut with flipped ends and dark roots that add authenticity to the wig. I slipped the wig onto my head, straightened it and finger-styled it.

I removed my undies from the bureau and pulled on a high waist panty girdle, while tucking Willy and his friends out of sight. Next came the matching long line bra and silicone breast forms that went into its cups.

Sitting on the bed, I put my pink-polished toes into a pair of suntan control-top sandalfoot pantyhose and worked the sheer nylon up my legs and over my girdle.

I slipped a black sheath dress over my head being careful not to smudge my makeup on the fabric.

Then I asked my spouse, “Karen, would you please zip up my dress?”

“Yes, honey,” she answered. She stopped combing her hair to assist with my zipper.

“There you go,” she said when she finished zipping me up and closing the clasp just above the zipper.

“Thank-you, sweetheart.”

I completed my look with some tasteful jewelry: a silver watch on my slender wrist, silver heart clip-on earrings and my wedding band and engagement ring. Finally, I added a set of stick-on nails to my fingers.

I straightened out my dress and smoothed the hem, which fell about three inches above my knees, then slipped on a pair of four-inch black patent pumps. A spritz of perfume on my wrists and on the nape of my neck and I stand back to admire the finished product in our full-length mirror. Stan has left the building and Pearl was in his place!

I announced, “I'm ready,” using a feminized version of my voice.

“You certainly are, Miss Pearl! I'm almost ready, too. Can you return the favor?”

Karen had just slipped on her green belted sweater dress and was waiting for me to zip her up.

“Sure thing,” I said and I zipped up her dress.

“Check me out, honey, to make sure I look okay,” she asked.

She spun around with her arms posed akimbo so that I could see any flaws in her ensemble.

“You look perfect,” I said, “I am so lucky to be married to a drop dead gorgeous woman.” 

Then I spun around with my arms posed akimbo so that she could see any flaws in my ensemble.

“Perfect... I am lucky to be married to a drop dead gorgeous woman, too,” she replied.

We air-kissed each other so as not to smudge our makeup, grabbed our purses and walked to the garage.

Karen drove because I had never driven wearing high heels. It was only a half-mile ride to the Lucas home and when we arrived, Karen parked the car on the street and we walked hand-in-hand to the front door.

Karen rang the bell and we soon heard the clicking of high heels approach the door from the inside. The door was opened by a beautiful woman, who I didn't recognize.

Karen said, “Hi, Bill. You look lovely.”

“Thank-you, but Bill’s not here. Please call me ‘Pamela.’ May I assume your beautiful girlfriend is Pearl?”

“You assumed correctly, Pamela.”

I was speechless. Pamela nee Bill looked fantastic. He was wearing a white jacquard mini-dress, off white metallic pantyhose and silver strappy 4-inch sandals. His shoulder-length chestnut hair was up and his makeup was perfect.

“You look fabulous,” I gushed.

“You, too, girlfriend. Let’s take some photos!”

Caveat Emptor: First, this is fiction and second, this is a rerun.

Wearing Zimmermann

Fran Heuser, model

Dysphoria Blues

By Monika Kowalska

Once upon a time, in the land of bathroom mirrors and selfie lights, I found myself engaged in an eternal struggle. It wasn’t with dragons, but rather with the very reflection staring back at me. Oh, the agony! Every time I glanced into a mirror, I saw this face, my face, yes, but it didn’t match the woman I longed to be. The edges of my jaw, too square. The brow, just a tad too prominent. The nose? Definitely too... masculine. I wasn’t seeing me; I was seeing him, a ghost of the past that lingered like an unwelcome shadow. Every time I tried to look at myself with love, there he was, as if mocking me from the other side of the glass.

“Why can’t you just... vanish?” I would ask. But no answer came, only the cruel silence of a face that refused to comply.

Of course, there were ways to fix this, solutions whispered in beauty clinics and showcased in dazzling before-and-after photos. Oh yes, doctors who promise a future of flawless beauty, and photos of women who look like they’ve been kissed by a thousand suns, sparkling with success and grace. They show you pictures of ladies who, to be honest, might as well be models walking down the runway in Paris, not just from a surgery, they were practically sculpted by the gods themselves. And I get it, they are successful, in the sense that no one could argue they didn’t absolutely nail it. The problem? Those photos made me feel like a failed contestant on a beauty pageant that hadn’t even been announced yet.

Then there’s the “visualization” process. You know, before the surgery, the moment they show you a sketch of what your future could look like after surgery. It’s as if they’re pulling a magic trick, turning my face into a rendition of some woman who looks like a million dollars. “Look, darling,” they say, “You’ll look just like this!” But deep down, I know... this is just a sketch. The reality is, I’ll be lucky if I even manage a decent resemblance to that lady. Sure, there’s FaceApp, which lets you envision your future face, because nothing says “self-assurance” like digitally altering your appearance with the click of a button. Does it help? Sort of. Does it make me feel better? Sometimes. But ultimately, FaceApp is like a catfishing friend who promises you a stunning beach vacation but somehow gets you stuck in a terrible Airbnb instead.

And then, there’s testosterone. Oh, testosterone, you vicious, invisible beast! It’s like an unwelcome guest at a party who keeps pushing you to drink more, and suddenly, you’re left with a mustache you never wanted. Every drop of that hormone, coursing through my veins, felt like it was screaming, “You’re not a girl, stop pretending.” And I resented it more than I could ever express. I was envious, oh so envious, of those teenage souls on puberty blockers. How lucky they were to have their journey unfold without this extra challenge! They were dancing through life with smooth skin, soft features, and voices that didn’t betray their gender. Me? I had to fight for every inch of my femininity. Every new wrinkle of masculinity etched into my face felt like a tiny rebellion against who I truly was.

But still, I fought on. I fought the testosterone. I fought the masculine features that seemed to carve their way into my face no matter how hard I tried. And every day, I looked into the mirror, and while I may not have seen her yet, I knew she was there, waiting. Because, as much as the dysphoria gnawed at me, I knew one thing to be true: I wouldn’t stop until I became the woman I knew I was. The fight would be long, yes, and it would be hard, but as I stood in front of that mirror, I made a silent promise to myself. One day, the dysphoria would lose. And I would win.

And then came the day, the day of the surgery I had dreamed about for so long. I woke up, my body heavy with the anesthesia, the world spinning slightly around me. I felt dizzy, like I was floating in and out of reality, and my first thoughts were, Did it work? Did the surgeons truly manage to give me the face I’ve always longed for? But, of course, I couldn’t know just yet. My face was swathed in bandages, hiding the results from me like a great secret I would have to wait to uncover. The dysphoria, that relentless companion that had shadowed me for so many years, was gone, for now. I knew it was just a matter of time, but in this moment, I felt a sense of peace I hadn’t known before. I had to be patient.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, the bandages came off. My hand trembled as I held the mirror, afraid yet so hopeful. There it was, my face, swollen, bruised, still fresh from surgery, but already hinting at the transformation. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it was promising, so promising. The masculine edges, the parts of me that had felt like a battle zone, were gone. Did it change me totally? No. I still resembled myself, but now it was as if I was looking at a version of me that had been hiding under layers of disguise. The face in the mirror felt more me than ever before, but in a way that was softer, more feminine. I wasn’t someone else, I was finally myself.

And then, I looked to my mother and my sister. My mother, tearful but not with sorrow, just the release of a heavy weight she hadn’t even realized she was carrying. Her eyes, once filled with confusion and worry, now shone with a new light. She saw her daughter, and for the first time in years, it felt like we were seeing each other as we truly were. My sister, ever the skeptic, looked at me with a mix of surprise and awe. She leaned in, examining my face, and for the first time, I felt her truly see me, not just as the girl she had always known, but as the woman I had always been inside. The relief in her eyes was unmistakable, and in that moment, I knew the journey had been worth it. The transformation wasn’t just physical, it was everyone’s transformation. And as we embraced, I knew, deep down, that this was the moment where the dysphoria finally lost.

Since 2013, Monika has been interviewing trans people in her blog, The Heroines of My Life. Click here to see who she has interviewed lately.

Wearing Bebe

Paul Dano (left) femulating in the 2010 film The Extra Man.

Hard Work

My wife often comments that since it takes so long for me to get ready to go out as a woman, is it worth it?

Of course, it is worth it (what a silly question), but she does make a legitimate observation, i.e., it does take me a long time to get ready.

My excuse is that I am obsessive compulsive. According to Wikipedia , "The phrase "obsessive-compulsive" has worked its way into the wider English lexicon, and is often used in an offhand manner to describe someone who is meticulous or absorbed in a cause. Such casual references should not be confused with obsessive-compulsive disorder…" (So, I'm not nuts, just a little crazy!)

As a result, when I go out as a woman, I want to look as perfect as possible, which means flawless makeup and not a hair showing that should not be showing.

I love putting on makeup and if I have the time, I indulge myself in the makeup process and can while away an hour or so putting on the war paint. But usually I don't have the time and I must get the job done as quickly as possible.

After years of practice, I have my makeup routine down to about 35 minutes if everything goes smoothly. I see no way of reducing that time without cutting corners and I refuse to cut corners, so I invest 35 minutes putting on my face.

The actual dressing is the easy part. I usually have my outfit picked out beforehand and I can have it on from soup to nuts, or should I say from girdle to wig in 15 minutes or less.

The wig I wear these days is a "shake and bake" wig. I just shake it out, put it on my head, make a few adjustments, and I'm done. I use self-stick pre-glued nails and they go on in less than five minutes with no muss or fuss. So, once my makeup is on, I can be out the door in less than a half hour.

Now the part I hate: hair depilation.

I am hairy. It is everywhere and depending on what I plan to wear, it can take 30 minutes to an hour just to get rid of it all.

I have long legs and they used to take some time to depilate. But over the years, I have depilated them so many times that new hair growth is sparse and now it only takes a few minutes to do my legs.

If I wear anything other than a long sleeved dress or top, then I have to depilate my arms. If I am wearing anything that exposes my shoulders, then they must be depilated, too. And so it goes for my chest and back if I am wearing anything that is low-cut in the front or back. Shaving my face is a joy in comparison.

When I come face-to-face with my hairy problem, I start thinking that my wife might be right, is it worth it?

Yes, it's hard work, but I still think it is worth every minute of it.

Wearing Chiara Boni

Ted Wass femulating in the 1983 film Curse of the Pink Panther.

Is it safe?

A reader asked what kind of advice would I pass along to my readers regarding going out among civilians today. As I considered what advice to offer, I read a disturbing story about two transgender women who were attacked at a Minneapolis rail station, while onlookers cheered on the perpetrators rather than helping the victims.

Note that this attack occurred in Minnesota, a “trans refuge” state. It also occurred in November, weeks before the new administration passed down its anti-trans edicts. If our haters were so emboldened back in November, can you imagine how emboldened they feel now!

With all that in mind, my advice would be no different whether you live in a blue state or red state. If you go out, you should be very particular about where you go. If you have gone out in the past, you know which locations are safer than others, but these days, there are no guarantees regarding safety. Even a church isn’t safe with all those transphobic Christian evangelists lurking about.

I guess the closet is a safe bet, but who wants to go back there?

To tell you the truth, in all my days en femme among civilians in both blue and red states, I have never encountered a situation where I feared my safety. The worst cases were someone pointing or laughing at me and I can count those events on one hand. So despite this sad new world we live in, I still feel emboldened to go out en femme and enjoy my life as I see fit.  

Wearing Ann Taylor

Ian Mcculloch femulating in the music video for Echo & The Bunnymen’s “Seven Seas.”
Click here to view the video on YouTube.

Stuff 59: Not a Drag Queen

But I Love Them

By J.J. Atwell

Can you be somebody who enjoys dressing as a woman, but doesn’t see Drag Queens in quite the same light? Is that odd? At least to me, I see a huge difference between myself as a CD and drag queens. When I see a drag queen, I’m often amazed at their outfits and makeup. Especially those drag queens that go for the more “realistic” look. Sometimes I’m envious that they get to do that and are accepted for it. 

But Are They Really Accepted?

A drag queen is basically an entertainer. They typically are not trying to pass in the real world. They are actually trying to attract attention. Is that the same as acceptance? I’m not sure myself. Yes, people accept that they are performing and many enjoy it. I just don’t know if “acceptance” is the right word.

Drag Queens are often a lightning rod for those who are not so accepting of gender diversity. For some reason there is a fear that children will grow up to be gender diverse if they are see a drag queen perform. To me it’s obvious that this is a fallacy. If something like that were true then surely we would have lot of mutant ninja turtles running around by now. 

Being exposed to drag queens is vastly different from being exposed to the typical CD who just wants to be out in public. When I go out, I’m not trying to attract attention. I’m also not trying to “convert” non-CDs to dressing as a woman. I’m just out there because I’m tired of my small closet and want to be out in the world. 

So I Rambled

As I re-read what I’ve written here I see that I’ve kind of rambled. By touching on a few unrelated things I may not have made a clear point. But then again perhaps its best if the reader takes their own conclusions. How about letting me know if you think drag queens and CDs belong in the same sentence. 

I’ll Be Back

I’ll be back with more Stuff in the next installment. Comments are welcome either here on the blog or by email to Jenn6nov at-sign gmail dot com. JJ is always looking for more stuff so let me know what you would like to read about.

Wearing Ann Taylor

Long-time Femulate.org reader, Mindy, celebrated Valentine's Day.

Pants for Everyone!

 

V Day

Wearing Shein

Larry Fine, Moe Howard and Curly Howard femulating in the 1940 film Nutty But Nice.

Reunion

By Monika Kowalska

I come from a small provincial town, a lovely place to live, as long as you have a job. Without one, moving to a bigger city was the obvious choice for me. I completed my college education there, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when my mother, still living in our small town, told me she’d received an invitation for me to attend the school reunion. 

My first instinct was to ignore it. I never really enjoyed my school years. I was a short, reserved boy, constantly struggling with my identity, knowing deep down that I wasn’t meant to be a boy. I had few friends, I was effeminate, and I had no interest in the things the boys were into. And on top of all that, I knew my current appearance would turn heads, not just among my former classmates, but in the entire town. I might be the first transgender woman they had ever encountered in real life. It was daunting, but something inside me told me to go. So I did.

Here’s the thing. I had to give the organizers a heads-up before the event. You see, our name tags had senior class pictures on them, and the last thing I wanted was for some poor soul to do a double-take when they saw “Steve” instead of “Monika” on my tag. So, to avoid any confusion or wild rumors about a 'new' classmate, I casually informed them about my transition. No big deal, right? Well… that might’ve been a bit of a stretch.

So there I was, standing at the entrance of my school reunion, ready to face a night filled with stares, awkward small talk, and the inevitable “OMG, is that really you?” moment. For most of my classmates, this was their first time meeting the new me. For some, the transformation was no surprise. A few had kept in touch with me over the years, and, well, they already knew the scoop. But for others, I immediately became the center of attention. 

Now, let me tell you: being the center of attention is both thrilling and awkward in equal measure. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so scrutinized. There’s this strange energy when you’re the object of curiosity instead of just blending in with the crowd. I noticed one guy, let’s call him Brad, whispering to his buddy, “Is that really Steve?” with the same skepticism you’d reserve for seeing a unicorn in a Starbucks.

The evening was a mix of awkward moments and unexpected fun. Dinner was a highlight, especially when the conversation turned to those school memories no one dares mention, except, of course, at a reunion, where everything becomes fair game. A friend I’ll call Lisa (not her real name, but she knows who she is) decided to tell the table about that time she "accidentally" spread a rumor about me. Apparently, I was the subject of some “legendary” gossip back in the day, mostly because no one really knew what to make of me.

“And, like,” she said, “We used to wonder what was really going on with you, Monika, but I’m so glad you’re living your truth now. You always were a little mysterious.”

She gave me a knowing look, and I just laughed. Mysterious? Yeah, I guess that's one way to put it. I mean, sure, there were plenty of times when I struggled to act like a guy properly. But mysterious? I always thought I was just confused and slightly (totally) lost in my own skin. Still, I'll take it. It’s the type of compliment that doesn’t need to make sense to be flattering.

Now, let me tell you about the outfit dilemma. I wanted to look nice, but I didn’t want to be too flashy. I’m a medium-level girl in terms of attractiveness, nothing too eye-catching, but I do attract occasional stares (at least I want to believe in it). So, I went with a simple, elegant dress. But the shoes? High heels. As the night wore on, those heels were starting to feel like a distant memory of comfort. I was starting to feel the fatigue from all the dancing. And trust me, with so many guys wanting to dance and offering free drinks, it was hard to keep up. 

Don’t get me wrong, it was flattering, but with every song (and drink), my feet started to cry out in protest. I kept trying to enjoy it, but after a while, the constant tug on my feet became a bit too much. Still, I kept dancing because, honestly, there’s something about being the center of attention that makes it worth it, even if my feet were begging for mercy.

As the evening wore on, the group of girls and I continued talking about everything. Now, I was finally able to chat with them, and it was like I had unlocked a whole new world. I was enjoying every second of it, finally being included in the girl talk, asking about relationships, careers, and yes, the occasional “How’s your family?” But eventually, the conversation shifted to kids, husbands, and families. And that’s when I started to feel a little out of place. I mean, I can’t exactly join in on the whole 'mom life' conversation when I don’t even have a pet, let alone a toddler.

But then, I found my people. You know the ones, those fabulous ladies who had gotten divorced quickly, no kids, and still knew how to live it up. We bonded over the shared experience of being free (okay, maybe lonely), fabulous (in our own minds), and perfectly content with our own company (for the most part). Suddenly, it felt like I had a new group of friends who understood the joys of not having to worry about anyone else’s problems for a change. Or maybe I was lying to myself?

I couldn’t help but notice how much everyone else had changed too. The male classmates, oh boy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many bald spots in one room. Don’t get me wrong, they were still looking good (in their own way), but it was a far cry from the jocks I remembered back in the day.

As for the ladies, they were an interesting mix. Some still looked as good as ever, elegant and sharp, while others... well, let’s just say the years had been kinder to me than to them. So, my school reunion turned into more than just a night of awkwardness and self-reflection, it became a reminder that life is all about change. Sometimes it’s physical, sometimes it’s emotional, but the real beauty lies in the connections we make along the way. Plus, if nothing else, at least I walked out with a few free drinks, no complaints here.

Monika has been interviewing trans people in her blog, The Heroines of My Life, since 2013. Click here to see who she has interviewed lately.

Wearing Bebe

Bruce Payne, Denis Quilley and Joe Melia femulating in the British film Privates On Parade.

Choices

We make choices everyday.

(Boxers, briefs or panties? Yogurt or bagel? Bra or bra-less? Regular or decaf?)

Some choices are more important than others and some have long-term ramifications.

(Should I be a doctor, a lawyer or a fire chief? Should I marry her, him or it?)

Sometimes our choices backfire. Sometimes our choices are just plain wrong and we suffer the consequences, but we are still free to choose whatever we want.

So why can’t we choose our gender?

Despite all the scientific evidence to the contrary, the anti-transgender crowd claims that transgender folks choose to be transgender just like the anti-gay crowd claims that gay folks choose to be gay. And according to those crowds, making those choices is wrong.

I am naturally feminine. My feminine speech and mannerisms are a bad fit in boy mode, but in girl mode, they are a perfect fit.

I could man up and never wear a dress again, but I chose not to impersonate a male. So, yes, I made a choice to live authentically and not fit in with the boys.

But what if I was not transgender?

What if I was a guy with no gender issues, who carefully weighed all the options and decided that living my life as a woman was preferable to living my life as a man. And as a result, chose to live life as a woman.

What's wrong with that?

I say, “Absolutely nothing.”

It is just another choice. Admittedly, it is a big choice with a lot of long-term ramifications, but humans make important choices everyday. That’s why God gave us intelligence and free will ― so that we can make choices ― like choosing our gender.

Wearing Bebe

Patrick Walshe McBride femulating on British television’s Shakespeare & Hathaway: Private Investigators.